Will Murder Out?
by Sloane Ranger
Summary: Will the past come back to haunt Rupert Giles when the New Tricks team begin to investigate a thirty year old mystery?
1. Chapter 1

**Will Murder Out?**

Sorry for the delay in updating my SVU/Leverage crossover – got a bit of writers block. Hopefully the next chapter will be up shortly. I've been trying to clear it by writing something else, so I thought I'd post it to see what people think.

This is another Buffy crossover with a crime show. This time it's a British one. I see from Wikipedia that 'New Tricks' has sold overseas, including the US so non-British readers may already be familiar with it. For anyone who isn't and wants a bit of background, the show is a comedy/drama involving a group of quirky retired detectives (ex Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Halford, ex Detective Inspector Brian Lane and ex Detective Sergeant Gerry Standing) who return to the Metropolitan Police as civilians to work on cold cases under the leadership of Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman, once a rising star but sidelined after a raid went wrong, the kidnap victim she were trying to rescue suffered multiple injuries and Sandra herself shot a dog.

The humour comes from the relationships between the characters, the retirees attitude towards the onset of the aches and pains of age and their unorthodox approach to police work now they are no longer covered by police regulations and Sandra's more rules orientated approach.

Now, read on…

**SAW International (Slayers and Watchers Council) 08:00**

"Good morning, Sir Rupert. Your tea, sir, hot and strong, just as you like it." Andrew Wells, Personal Assistant to Rupert Giles, Chair of the newly reconstituted Slayers and Watchers Council, laid the cup and saucer down in front of his boss and hovered respectfully.

Giles sighed. Ever since Andrew had discovered that he has inherited a Baronetcy upon the death of his father, the younger man had not only insisted upon using the title on every possible occasion but perfected an impersonation of a butler that would have put the most uncious man-servant in literature to shame. Since, as far as he was concerned, the only benefit of the title was the access it gave him to the higher echelons of British society and the opportunity to influence the political, economic and social elites of the nation in ways that supported the Council's objectives, he found Andrew's snobbery annoying. However, as usual, he remembered that, to mix metaphors, when the chips had been down, Andrew had stepped up to the mark so he bit back his irritation and made his standard reply.

"Thank you, Andrew." He took a sip of tea. "Excellent. So, what is in my diary for today?"

Andrew coughed, opened the thick leather bound diary he was carrying under his arm and made a show of consulting it. "I've allowed you two hours to read your e-mails and check the overnight reports," he nodded towards the deep pile on the blotter in front of Giles, "I've placed them all in priority order with the most urgent and important on the top. At ten o'clock you have a meeting with Mr Admunson to discuss the budget overrun for the new Slayer School in Adelaide, at eleven, Miss Cochrane will be updating you on the progress of the negotiations on the non-aggression pact with the K'len Demon Clan. After that, at eleven forty-five, Mr Nicholas will be reviewing the postings for the newly graduating class of Watchers with you. At twelve forty-five exactly the car will be out front ready to take you to the Graduation ceremony. The amendments you requested to your speech marking the occasion have been made. You are scheduled to speak at two p.m. and then spend the rest of the afternoon meeting the newly trained Watchers and their families, after which the car will pick you up again at five-fifteen and return you here in time for a video conference with Faith about increased vampire activity in the areas hit by Hurricane Katrina… oh, and Willow called, she said it wasn't urgent but she'd like to see you sometime. Apparently, the Scryers have identified some sort of disturbance in the Force, centred round the upper echelons of the Council." Seeing his boss's reaction, Andrew hurriedly added. "Don't worry, Sir, she said to tell you that it's nothing Apocalyptic!"

Giles wondered, in passing, when things had become so bureaucratic that old friends like Willow felt they had to schedule appointments rather than just drop in to see him. He felt a surge of nostalgia for the old days of the Sunnydale Library and the Magic Box. Now, with Buffy almost permanently abroad inspecting the new facilities for Slayers and Watchers the new Council had set up and Xander in Africa, Willow was the only one of the old crowd he got to see on anything close to a regular basis, but all he said was, "Very well. Ask Willow if she can join me for a light lunch please at, oh, twelve-twenty. Nicholson and I should be finished by then. Arrange to have some sandwiches, mineral water and coffee sent up"

"Very good, Sir Rupert." Andrew pencilled a note in the diary. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No, thanks. Leave me to get on with it, if you will please? I'll call if I need you." Giles eyed the neat pile of printed e-mails and other papers in disgust.

"Sir Rupert." Andrew almost bowed himself out of the office.

Left to himself, Giles picked up the paper on top of the pile but, instead of concentrating on the report from Xander on the attack on an African village by a previously peaceful Demon tribe, he found himself looking around at the airy, oak panelled room, taking in the expensive furnishings and the rare books on Demonology and the occult that filled the bookcases. It had been nearly three years since the calling of the Slayers and the fall of Sunnydale. The new, improved Council had been successfully set up and was running like clockwork. For the first time, good had the resources to fight the vampires and creatures of the night wherever they were and win. Apocalypses seemed to have gone out of fashion in the Demon community and life had fallen into a routine. Even the outbreak of vampirism in New Orleans and the American South would be easily dealt with by Faith and the team of crack Slayers he had drafted in to the area from the Cleveland Hellmouth. As for the attack on the African village, it was probably no more than a struggle for scarce resources in a famine hit area.

No doubt it would not last and the forces of evil would adjust to the new situation in time so he should be enjoying the relative peace and quiet while it lasted. Instead he felt tired and jaded. He would never have believed it during his time in Sunnydale but he missed the informality of old friends like Willow just dropping in casually and, even more, he missed the excitement and adrenaline rush of personally fighting evil rather than overseeing the fight and sending others into danger while he remained behind the safety of a desk.

Gloomily, he polished his glasses and forced himself to continue reading.

* * *

><p><strong>Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Squad, Metropolitan Police (<strong>**UCOS), 08:00 hours**

"Alright everyone, pay attention!"

Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman looked around at her assembled crack team of investigators. Jack Halford had glanced up momentarily before returning to the task of counting some yellow and black capsules as he replaced them back in their bottle. Gerry Standing was giving her an irritated stare, his pencil still poised over the Racing Post, open on his lap. Brian Lane continued tapping away on his laptop, an expression of intense concentration on his face; he had given no indication that he had even heard her.

Sandra sighed. The members of the UCOS team were excellent at what they did, but sometimes, they acted as if it was a hobby.

"If you could drag yourself away from your personal interests for a moment and concentrate on the job you are being paid for." She said, glaring at her offending staff.

This got Jack and Gerry's attention. Jack quickly swept the remaining capsules back into the bottle, screwed on the lid and sat back in his chair, his face a picture of injured innocence, while Gerry lowered the pencil, adopting an expression of deep interest.

"Brian!" Sandra yelled.

The remaining member of the UCOS team looked up. "What?" Seeing his boss standing in front of the whiteboard and his colleagues looking towards her, he grasped the situation immediately. "Oh, sorry, Sandra."

"Right, now I have your undivided attention, let me tell you about our new case." Sandra took a photograph from the slim case file on the table beside her and attached it to the board with a magnet. "David James Randall."

The others saw a man in his late teens or early twenties, dressed in a flowery shirt with a deep collar, almost hidden by long, flowing dark hair and beard.

Gerry chuckled. "Gawd, that takes me back! I had a shirt like that in the early seventies. The birds really went for me in it, if you know what I mean!"

"Yes, thank you Jerry for that trip down bonking lane." Sandra ploughed on. "Randall disappeared sometime on or after 23rd August 1975…"

Brian leaned forward, his interest genuinely aroused. "Why the uncertainty about the date?"

"He came from a family with a long tradition of service in the Royal Navy but he was thrown out of Dartmouth Naval College for not demonstrating the qualities required of an officer. He and his father had words, which ended with the father turning him out of the house with instructions to never darken the door again unless he was willing to straighten out. As far as we know, his father never saw him again after that. Anyway, he moved into a squat in Shadwell. His mother was more understanding, apparently, and kept in contact with him, at least to the extent that he told her where he was living and would turn up at the family home at irregular intervals, to ask her for money. She last saw him on 23rd August 1975."

"Druggie?" asked Jack.

Sandra shrugged. "Possibly, that's what the original investigation thought but we don't know. Anyway, when his mother realised she hadn't seen him for over six months, she went round to the squat and found it abandoned. That's when she called the police."

"What did they do?" Brian asked.

"Not much." Admitted Sandra, tapping the slim case-file. "They seem to have just gone through the motions. They interviewed neighbours but they were no help, they couldn't even agree on when the squat's occupants had flitted. So, finding no trace of Randall in hospitals or police cells and no obvious evidence of foul play, they told Mrs Randall that her son had probably moved to another squat or joined a commune or something and she'd probably hear from him again when he needed money."

"That's quite possible," Jack pointed out. "It was the time of 'Tune in, turn on and drop out'. Did they trace the squats other occupants and interview them?"

"Not according to the case file." Sandra said. "And, as it turns out, he had dropped out… of life altogether!" She added, dryly, picking up another photograph and attaching it to the board. The picture showed a partial skeleton, minus its skull, with tatters of clothing still clinging to the frame.

"This was discovered last week when contractors were tearing down some disused lockups in Whitechapel so a Housing Association could use the site to build affordable housing for key workers. DNA proves that the body is that of David Randall. Further tests show that he'd been dead for about thirty years. As he would appear to have been decapitated, foul play is suspected." She handed each man a copy of the slim case-file and watched as they leafed through its meagre contents.

Jack looked up. "Why have we got this?" he asked. "If the body was only discovered last week, surely it's an active investigation?"

"The Force has got its hands full with the 7/7 bombings and their aftermath so Strickland volunteered us. Although the body was only discovered recently, he must have been murdered some time in the nineteen seventies so the case is cold in that respect." Sandra answered.

"Was the head found with the rest of the body?" Brian asked.

Sandra shook her head. "No, that's still missing."

"So, are there any leads?" Gerry asked. "What about the others in the squat? Are they possible other victims or suspects?"

Sandra shrugged. "We don't know. The lock up where Randall was discovered and the area around it were searched pretty thoroughly and no other remains were found but that's not conclusive. It's obviously important that we trace them now. Jack, you and I are going to interview the parents. They live in Walton-on-Thames. There's also a sister, who is now married and lives in Esher. I've make arrangements for us to visit her afterwards. Gerry, I want you to go over the police reports and post-mortem results, see if there's anything there that could help us and then check out the lock-up where the body was found. Brian, research Randall's fellow squatters, I want to know if they're still alive and, if so, where they are now and what they're doing."

Sandra turned back to the whiteboard and scrawled,

_Squat Occupants - Victims/Suspects?_

_Philip Henry, _

_Deirdre Page, _

_Thomas Sutcliffe, _

_Ethan Rayne_

_Rupert Giles._

She looked round. "Right, let's get started, shall we? Jack, get your coat."

T.B.C.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who has read this. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Chapter 2**

**Randall Residence, ****Walton-on-Thames, 10:23**

Jack Halford looked on as Mrs Randall carefully poured tea through a strainer.

"We've never taken to tea bags." She explained. "It just doesn't taste the same, don't you think?"

"Thank you." Jack carefully accepted the delicate bone china cup and smiled. "Mary, my wife, always used to say that because the amount of tea in each bag is pre-measured, you couldn't adjust the amount to suit your own taste."

"Exactly!" Mrs Randall replied, triumphantly.

Jack studied his surroundings. The Randall's lived in a mock-Tudor villa and, so far, everything about them showed that they ran pretty close to upper middle class type. Upon arriving at the house Sandra and he had been shown into a large sitting room with French windows leading to an extensive, well tended, back garden which ran all the way down to the Thames. Mrs Randall was a small, bustling woman with grey hair. Her skirt and blouse were classic in design and good quality. She wore a pearl necklace round her neck. Her husband, who had introduced himself as Captain Randall R.N.,Ret'd, was taller, well-built but running slightly to fat, with a fringe surrounding his bald spot. He was dressed in slacks and a yacht club blazer over an open shirt. This gave Jack an indication of why D.A.C. Strickland, an enthusiastic member of the Metropolitan Police Sailing Club, had been so anxious to volunteer U.C.O.S. for this case. Captain Randall did not, however, look like the Victorian father, he had been imagining on the journey down.

Sandra Pullman began the interview. "Please accept our sympathies on your loss."

Both parents lowered their heads.

"Thank you, Detective Superintendent." Captain Randall said in a low voice. "I realise you will need to ask us some questions. We will help in any way we can. I want to see whoever did this to David locked up for the rest of their lives. It's a pity they abolished hanging."

It was Sandra's turn to lower her head to acknowledge the statement. "Tell us about David. We know the outline of what happened but Mr Halford and I would like to hear it in your own words."

Mrs Randall put down her teacup and reached for a large photograph album that was lying on the occasional table beside her chair. "I looked this out after you rang." She explained. Sandra and Jack leaned forward so they could see the pictures.

Mrs Randall pointed to the first photograph in the Album. "This was Davy when he was only a few days old. He was such a beautiful baby!" Her voice caught and she paused to regain control. They watched as she flicked through the Album; birthday parties, David's first day at prep school, Scouts; the record of a standard upper-middle class upbringing. She paused at a picture of David, in his early teens. It was a wholesome picture, showing their victim, relaxed and grinning into the camera. His dark hair was cut short with a neat parting, providing a massive contrast to the long haired and bearded image on the whiteboard back at U.C.O.S. He was dressed in a black gown over a white shirt, a blue and black striped tie and dark grey trousers.

"That was taken in 1966, the day Davy left for Radley." Captain Randall said. "I was so proud of him."

"James is an Old Radleian himself." Mrs Randall explained.

The Captain continued. "Davy seemed to enjoy his time there. His schoolwork was above average but what he really excelled at was sports, particularly Rugby and Rowing. That's why I wanted him to go to Radley. I knew that a good grounding in team sports would stand him in good stead when it came to him applying for the Navy."

"So it was always intended that Davy would join up?" Sandra asked.

"It's a family tradition." Captain Randall replied.

"What did Davy think of it?" Jack wanted to know.

Mrs Randall took up the story. "When he was younger, he seemed excited at the prospect. He took the entrance examination for Dartmouth and passed with flying colours." Her expression saddened. "During the summer holidays, however, he seemed to change. He had always been a happy, outgoing boy. He always used to tell us everything but he became, I don't know, withdrawn, almost secretive."

Her husband nodded. "I blame it on the Page girl and the crowd she was in. He met them at some party he'd been invited to by an old school chum. At first we weren't concerned. They all came from good families; Deirdre Page's father was Sir Geoffrey Page, Q.C.; you may have heard of him?"

Sandra looked blank but Jack nodded to show that the name was familiar to him.

"That was when David began going off the rails." Captain Randall continued. "He began staying out late, sometimes all night and when his mother or I challenged him, he would become defensive and angry. I hoped that his relationship with Miss Page would come to a natural end once he started at Dartmouth but it didn't. He missed classes, returned late from weekend passes; that kind of thing. The final straw was when they found marijuana in his room. The authorities were left with no option but to expel him." The old sailor's face twisted in a grimace of remembered pain.

Sandra broke in gently. "I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but do you think your son was a drug addict?"

"If he wasn't then, I'm sure he became one later." The Captain replied. He turned to his wife, who looked like she was about to protest. "I'm sorry, Audrey, but I heard stories at the club about that crowd and why else would he have kept dunning you for money?"

"Anyway," he continued, "after he was expelled he came back here. He was in a state, wild-eyed, unshaven. I hoped to shock him back to his senses so I told him that I would withdraw his allowance unless he gave up Deirdre Page and her crowd and got himself a job. He lost his temper. Said some very hurtful things about me and his mother. I confess I lost my temper as well and ordered him out of the house. Told him not to come back until he was ready to act like a responsible adult. He called me a dinosaur and worse. Said he didn't need anything from me; that he and his friends could look after themselves and stormed out. That was the last time I saw my son. The 17th March 1974. I'll remember it to my dying day." Pain filled his face again, then he shrugged. "I suppose I expected him to come back with his tail between his legs within a few days, weeks at most but he didn't and I was too proud and too stubborn to go looking for him."

"These friends, were they the same ones he lived with in the squat, Captain Randall?" Jack asked.

Randall shrugged. "I assume so."

"You maintained contact with your son after this incident, Mrs Randall." Sandra noted.

The older woman nodded. "Yes. The first time was an accident. It was July 1974. I had gone into London and I saw him in Oxford Street. He'd changed a lot in the four months since …" she broke off.

"In what way?" asked Jack.

"He looked thin and haggard. He'd grown his hair long and had a scruffy beard. He was wearing a pair of tattered jeans and a black tee shirt with a skull design and the name of some pop group on it, but a mother can always recognise her child, no matter how much he has changed."

"What was he doing when you saw him?" Sandra asked.

Mrs Randall took a deep breath, as if she were about to confess to a serious crime. "He was begging!" she said.

Her husband grunted in disgust.

Jack and Sandra ignored the interruption, leaning forward encouragingly.

"Go on." Jack urged.

"I went to him. He looked like he hadn't eaten properly in weeks so I took him to a nearby café and bought him a square meal. He insisted that he was alright but wouldn't say much about his life and I didn't want to press him in case he stormed out on me and I never saw him again. He did let slip the address where he was living. Before I left, I gave him twenty-five pounds, which was all the money I had on me at the time, and told him he knew where I was if he ever needed help. He said he wouldn't return to the house while his father was there – he could be as proud and stubborn as his father – so I told him to come round on a Thursday, when his father was at the club."

"And you never mentioned this meeting to your husband?" Sandra asked.

Mrs Randall shook her head and glanced towards her spouse. "No. I didn't want to risk another confrontation between them." She took a deep breath again. "Anyway, he did come round; it was a Thursday about a month later. He'd made an effort to look presentable but well…" She spread her hands. "I made us both a pot of coffee and gave him some cake, we talked and I gave him some more money before he left."

"And your husband didn't notice that you were withdrawing sums of money from the household account, Mrs Randall?" Jack asked.

"I was left a small legacy by my father, which I keep in a separate account." She explained.

Jack nodded his understanding as Mrs Randall went on.

"We kept on meeting. Sometimes he would come round almost weekly, at other times there were gaps of months between his visits. That's why I didn't think anything until I realised he hadn't been round in six months!" Mrs Randall began sobbing and her husband moved to comfort her, handing her a handkerchief.

"You didn't know anything about these meetings, Captain?" Sandra asked.

The former Royal Naval officer looked up and shook his head. "I knew that Audrey sometimes seemed upset when I returned from the club but I assumed it was because she didn't like the amount of time I was devoting to Yacht Club business."

Jack leaned forward, his voice soft. "I know this is difficult for you, Mrs Randall but we need to catch whoever did this to Davy. Please think hard. Was there anything that he said to you, anything at all unusual about him that you noticed in the period before he disappeared?"

Mrs Randall dried her eyes on the handkerchief. "The last time he was here, he was in good spirits. He said that he and his friends had discovered something exciting, something wonderful. He was wearing that tee shirt again and I noticed that he had a tattoo. It hadn't been there two months before when I had last seen him."

"Can you describe the tattoo?" Sandra wanted to know.

Mrs Randall screwed up her eyes in an effort to remember. "It was a stylised design. It was done in black ink. It reminded me of those cactuses you used to see in cowboy films, with three trunks growing out from a central one. The two outer trunks were higher than the inner one and there was a kind of tentacle coming out of its side, which curled round and ended in a ball." Seeing the expressions on Sandra and Jack's faces she said. "Here I'll draw it."

She got up and found a pad of drawing paper and some pencils. "Woman's Institute art classes," she explained as she quickly sketched out the design before tearing the paper off the pad and handing it to Sandra.

* * *

><p><strong>SAW International (Slayers and Watchers Council) 12:18<strong>

Giles showed Duncan Nicholas out of his office. "Thank you for all the work you put in on the deployments, Duncan. I'll see you this afternoon at the ceremony."

As the other Watcher left the room, he turned to the red-headed young woman who was talking quietly with Andrew and his face creased in a smile of genuine pleasure.

"Willow! Come in." He ushered her into his office, calling to Andrew to have the refreshments brought in.

For the first few minutes the two old friends chatted generally about old times as they ate. Finally, after most of the sandwiches had been consumed Giles poured coffee for them both, earning a chuckle from Willow. He raised an eyebrow towards her.

"There was a time when we thought you didn't drink anything but tea." She explained.

"Ah, yes, well, when one is in a foreign country, one tends to self consciously exaggerate one's own cultural identity." Giles said. He sighed. "Now, I suppose we can't put the actual reason for this get together, pleasant as it has been, off any longer. What can you tell me about what Andrew describes as this disturbance in the Force which will affect the Council?"

Willow took a sip of coffee and settled back in her seat, her face becoming serious. "As I told Andrew, it's nothing Apocalyptic, or even life threatening. In fact the movements in the ether were so subtle that I don't think whatever it is, is even magical in origin." She leant forward to emphasise her next statement. "There is one thing I didn't tell Andrew and why I wanted to see you personally. Giles, whatever is going to happen, it's centred on you and it's something to do with your past!"

Giles stared at the young Witch. He felt his heart racing as an icy chill ran down his back.

* * *

><p><strong>Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Squad, Metropolitan Police (<strong>**UCOS), 12:28 hours**

Gerry Standing looked up from the police file and stretched. He was dying for a fag. He checked his watch and noted the time.

"Brian, fancy a pie and a pint, or in your case a mineral water?" He asked his fellow investigator.

His enquiry was ignored as Brian Lane tapped obsessively at his computer, muttering to himself. Gerry sighed, his colleague was impossible when he was like this. Making up his mind, he put on his jacket and scrawled a note, which he left propped up on his desk where Brian would see it if he looked up. Brian didn't appear to notice as he left the office.

'_I'll have a quick one at the boozer, then have a shufti at the lock-up.'_ He decided. _'After that, I'll go round to the squat, see if there's anyone still living in the street that was there in the mid-seventies._

'

**T.B.C.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Squad, Metropolitan Police (UCOS), Day 1, 15:12 hours**

Brian paused in his research into the known occupants of the squat to stare at the information on his computer screen.

"Interesting." He muttered. He went back to a previous record and studied that. "_Very_interesting." He amended. He quickly pulled up the remaining records, opened his notepad and began scribbling furiously.

Finally, he looked up. "Gerry…"

He saw that his colleague's desk was unoccupied and noticed the note that had been left there. "He could have asked me if I wanted lunch." He grumbled before glancing at his watch. "I would have thought Sandra and Jack would have been back by now. This can't be a coincidence. Something is going on. It's a conspiracy - must be!"

He picked up the phone and began dialling.

**Flat, Peabody Estate, Day 1, 16:44 hours**

"Mu-um, …lovely! Seasoned with soy sauce?" Gerry asked Mrs Jameson as he bit into the Jamaican beef patty she had served him. "Lovely flaky pastry as well."

The West Indian woman nodded proudly. "Pattys should have taste innit. I use turmeric in the pastry. Egg yolk just don't do it." She explained.

Gerry nodded, "You're right there." He said as he took another enthusiastic bite. He was pleased at the opportunity to rest his plates(1) after a heavy afternoon's walking. He had looked over the lock-up but found nothing that had not been in the report and then started a door to door in the street where Randall and his mates had had their squat. Unfortunately, the area had become gentrified in the intervening years and was now occupied by Yuppies working in the City extension at Canary Wharf. Most of the residents had been at work; the few who were home had taken in his off-the-peg suit and generally dishevelled appearance and treated him as if he were a double glazing salesman. Suggestions that they might actually mix with the sort of people who had lived there prior to the area's move up-market had been treated with contempt. He had been about to forget the lectures on the importance of good police/community relations and give a piece of his mind to the next Armani and Gucci clad twenty something who looked at him as if he was something they wanted to scrape off the bottom of their designer footwear when he had struck lucky.

He had knocked on the door of the house but, this time, instead of it being opened by some cocky post-adolescent, he had found himself facing a middle-aged woman, whose manner and dress shouted County. Her manner was initially cold but this was familiar territory to Gerry, whose experience of women, like Doctor Watson's spanned many nations and three separate continents - although, unlike Doctor Watson, he had never actually been outside of Europe. After hitting her with the patented Standing posh totty(2) pulling power, she unbent and told him that she was widowed and visiting her son for a few days. She had bought the house as a twenty-first birthday present for him and arranged for someone to come in and clean it. Yes, she remembered the woman she had employed telling her she had lived in the street in the 1970's. Gerry had left with the char-woman's contact details and an invitation to meet up later for drinks.

It transpired that the cleaner in question, Mrs Jameson, now lived in a flat on the nearby Peabody Estate. Gerry had made his way there and overcome her suspicions of police involvement by accidentally discovering a mutual interest in cookery. Hence he found himself ensconced in her kitchen, sampling her Jamaican Patty recipe.

"So, you remember the squat, then?" he asked.

Mrs Jameson nodded. "Yeah. There wuz five of them who stayed there all the time but a lot of other hippie types came and went, you know?"

"Can you remember any names?"

Mrs Jameson shook her head. "Nah. Even if I knew them then, I've forgotten them now. They didn't mix much. Lot of long-haired rich kids pretending to have street cred, innit."

"So, what were they like?"

She shrugged. "Typical hippies. Sleep all morning, kept the street up playing loud music all night. Layabouts living off hand-outs, innit."

"So, when did they leave?"

Mrs Jameson screwed up her eyes in an effort to remember the events of thirty years before. "I can't say for sure. They just flitted. One night they wuz there with the music and the chanting, the next they wuz gone. It would have been late in 1975, maybe September or October? I remember 'cos our Darryl was back at school after the summer holidays and they wuz stopping him getting to sleep."

Gerry pounced on the new information. "Chanting?" he asked. "What sort of chanting?"

Mrs Jameson shrugged. "I never heard it but Winston, my husband, told me 'bout it. He went round one evening to complain after they's kept up the whole street with loud music and folks shoutin' and screamin' all night. He told me he could hear it through the door before he knocked. Said it sounded like something from a Hammer horror film. It stopped when he knocked and one of the hippies threw open the door and started swearing at him at the top his voice. Winston said the guy looked stoned outa his head and the place stank of ganja and incense and there were candles burnin' everywhere! Anyway, Winston an' he shouted at each other for a while, until one of the other hippies come out an' said he'd break Winston's arms and legs if he didn't get lost."

"Where's Mr Jameson now?" Gerry asked.

Mrs Jameson shook her head, sadly. "He passed on, ten years ago, God bless his soul." She replied. "Anyway," the woman continued. "Winston, he worked for the Council on the bins. He was a strong man and knew how to protect his-self. He said the first guy really gave him the creeps but the second one scared the you know what out of him so he come back here."

She paused. "I just remembered. Winston said the first guy called the second one "Ripper"."

**Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Squad, Metropolitan Police (UCOS), Day 1, 17:52 hours**

"…so we spoke to David Randalls's sister and, according to her, he was heavily into the occult as were the rest of the crowd he was going around with." Sandra finished. Noting Brian jigging about in his seat, she held up her hand. "In a minute, Brian. Gerry…?"

"No joy at the lock-up, Sandra but there may be something in this occult stuff. I found someone who says the house stank of incense and weed and they were into chanting by candlelight."

"Oh, come on!" Jack protested. "It was the seventies. Everybody was into that sort of stuff! What are we saying here, that he was killed as part of some sort of satanic ritual?"

"Decapitation is a common element in the superstitions of several cultures, including our own. Take vampires for instance; beheading is one way of killing them." Brian offered.

Sandra shrugged. "It's a theory." she said. "But, at the moment, that's all it is. Based on what we know so far, he could, just as easily have been killed in a row over a girl or in some dope induced frenzy. We could even be dealing with a mass murder. We still don't know what happened to the other squatters." She reminded them. Seeing Brian jumping up and down in his seat, she said. "Brian?"

"It's definitely not a multiple killing, Sandra, at least not in the mid-seventies but of the six members of the core group, four are definitely dead and one has disappeared, possibly deceased."

"Unusual, but not impossible." Gerry observed. "It _has_ been over thirty years."

"Listen to this." Brian went on. He walked towards the whiteboard, picked up a marker and began writing against the names on it. "David Randall we know about. Of the other five, Thomas Sutcliffe, died 14th October 1997, Lewes, Sussex; Dierdre Page, died 26th October 1997, Chelsea; Philip Henry, died 6th November 1997, Sunnydale, California; Ethan Rayne, last heard of in January 2000, guess where?" He did not wait for an answer. "Sunnydale California! And guess who else was living in Sunnydale at the time both Philip Henry died and Ethan Rayne disappeared?"

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say Rupert Giles." offered Jack.

Brian nodded in satisfaction. "Moved there in late 1996. I've asked the relevant Coroners' office for the post-mortem results for Dierdre Page and Thomas Sutcliffe and I've sent a fax to the FBI to see if they can get hold of a copy of Philip Henry's they can send us." He said.

"Alright, three deaths so close together _is_ interesting." Sandra acknowledged. "But, even if Giles is involved somehow in Philip Henry's death and Ethan Rayne's disappearance, there is no way he could be involved in Dierdre Page's and Thomas Sutcliffe's unless he was in this country at the time. We need to find out if he returned to Britain during the relevant period."

"Hang on a minute, Brian, Sunnydale rings a bell." Gerry said. "I think I remember reading something about it." Seeing the others look at him in surprise, he added, defensively, "Hey, I do occasionally read something other the Sports pages!"

Brian nodded. "It's the town that fell into a crater in 2003. According to the U.S. Government it was built over an underground lake. The people were warned several days before it went and the town evacuated. There were no casualties."

"So, where is Rupert Giles now?" Sandra asked. "If he's still in the States Strickland will not sign off on us going there to interview him on what we have at the moment."

Brian smiled like a crocodile. "Rupert Giles, or, _Sir_ Rupert Giles, 11th Baronet, as he became after his father was killed in an explosion that destroyed his Gentlemans Club in 2002…"

"Sabotage…terrorism?" Sandra interrupted.

Brian shook his head. "Ruptured gas main according to the reports." He said. "But ask me where Rupert was at the time of the explosion." He prompted.

"Alright, I'll bite where was he?" Gerry asked.

"Right here in London! He took off back to the States almost immediately afterwards, not even staying for the funeral, only returning again after Sunnydale disappeared and now runs an educational charity. Its Head Office is just off Hatton Garden.

The group stirred at this news.

"Our Rupert seems to be a lightning rod for violent death." Sandra noted, thoughtfully.

Jack summarised the information, "So, everyone who shared that squat with Rupert Giles in either dead or unaccounted for, his father was killed in a one in a million accident and the American town he moved to has disappeared off the map. You're right, Sandra, he is definitely a man to avoid!"

"He's definitely a man to interview. I'm going to ring and arrange an appointment now." Sandra snapped. She looked at her watch. "It's probably too late but I may catch someone. In the meantime, Jack I want you to pull up the file on the explosion, there must have been an investigation. Gerry check with Immigration to see if Giles returned to this country during September 1997. When we meet with him I want to know everything there is to know about his movements and activities during the relevant periods. Brian, according to Mrs Randall, the last time she saw her son he had acquired a tattoo. Here's a drawing she did of the design. See what you can find out about it."

Brian looked at the drawing. "Unusual." he said, "Not your average tattoo parlour creation."

**SAW International (Slayers and Watchers Council), Day 2, 14:13**

Sandra Pullman and Brian Lane entered the gracious, medieval entrance hall of the Jenny Calendar Foundation and gave their names to the ancient looking commissionaire staffing the Reception Desk. To their surprise, they had discovered that the educational charity of which their chief suspect was the head, owned the entire building. Seeing the dark roof beams and ornately decorated wood panelling, set off with walls painted a rich gold colour, Sandra turned to her colleague and repeated what Gerry had said to the team earlier that day.

"They must be loaded!"

Brian nodded, his eyes moving about taking in everything from the architecture and décor to the employees moving through the reception area. "Must be costing them a pretty penny." He concurred.

A young man incongruously dressed in tweeds came out of an antique lift and came over to them.

"Detective Superintendent Pullman; Mr. Lane?" As Sandra nodded, he went on in an American accent "I am Andrew Wells, Sir Rupert's personal assistant. He is a very busy man and you're lucky he was able to fit you into his schedule so quickly. However, he wishes to assist the police as much as possible. Please come this way."

Sandra and Brian entered the lift after Wells and watched as he closed the metal grill and hit the button for the top floor. As the lift came to a bumpy stop they followed him down a corridor and into a small office, at the far end of which were a set of well polished oak doors.

Wells knocked respectfully and a clear, well modulated, English accented voice called "Come in."

Wells threw open the doors and announced, in the manner of a butler conducting a guest into the presence of his master. "Detective Superintendent Pullman and Mr. Lane, Sir Rupert."

Sandra strode into the room intent on imposing her personality at the very start of the interview and then came to a sudden halt, staring at the man, who had risen from behind his desk to greet them, her mouth, unconsciously, gaping open at the sight.

Despite their best efforts, the UCOS team had been unable to locate a recent photograph of Rupert Giles. Take away his spectacles and the man walking forward, his hand outstretched in greeting was the spitting image of Sir Timothy Fanshawe-Smythe, the art expert who had tried to seduce her in an attempt to cover up of his thefts of paintings from the Queen's collection.

**T.B.C.**

(1) Plates – Feet (Cockney Rhyming slang)

(2) Totty – slang for sexually attractive woman.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story and the kind things you have said. I hope this chapter continues to please.

**Chapter 4**

**Former Location of Squat, Day 2, 12:17**

"Everything here is a hand crafted original. It's irreplaceable! If you damage anything, I'll sue you for every penny you've got!"

"We'll treat everything as if it were our own, madam. Thank you for your co-operation." Jack Halford assured the angry yuppie as he ushered her out of her own house.

"And make sure you clean up after yourself!" she shouted as the door closed in her face.

Gerry turned towards the white-suited forensics officers who had accompanied them. He rubbed his hands together. "Alright lads, let's make a start. The place has been renovated and redecorated several times since our victim was killed but traces of blood could have seeped through the floorboards so let's have them up and look underneath."

"That's parquetry, that is." Jack observed. "Must have cost a packet."

Gerry shrugged. "So we'll do the usual if it gets splintered."

As the young Forensics team looked on in concern, they looked at each other and chorused in unison. "Cover with shoe polish and hide under one of the rugs!"

* * *

><p><strong>SAW International (Slayers and Watchers Council), Day 2, 14:22<strong>

Giles had not been looking forward to this interview. When he had been approached by Andrew, shortly after finishing his teleconference with Faith, with the news that the police had phoned to request a meeting and the reason for it, he had felt a mixture of emotions. Relief that the danger, foreseen by Willow, was no longer hanging over him and fear that an episode in his life he had thought finally over when Ethan had been taken away in handcuffs, had come back to haunt him. He knew that he would be a suspect in Randall's death - if not the prime suspect. A phrase from the Book of Numbers sprang into his mind _'…be sure your sins will find you out.'_

Not wanting to appear to have anything to hide, he had instructed Andrew to re-arrange his diary to fit in a meeting with the police detective and her colleague the following day. It had only been later, when lying in bed, that he had wondered if the police would consider his eagerness to meet with them to be, in itself; suspicious. His public face was, after all, that of the head of a major international charity; someone who would have many calls upon his time. He had briefly considered having a Solicitor present for the interview; the firm of Murgatroyd and Jarvis had handled legal affairs for the Watchers Council for nearly two hundred years and knew where all the bodies were buried. He had rejected the idea for fear this would raise even more suspicion against him. After finally falling into a restless sleep, the nightmare that had haunted his dreams in the months after Randall's death came back as strong as ever. He could see Randall's face, overlaid with that of Eyghon, laughing at him, hear the swish of the sword, its steel blade glinting in the candlelight as Randall's head slowing toppled off his shoulders and fell to the floor, bright red, arterial blood spurting everywhere!

He woke to find his pyjamas wringing wet with sweat. During the night his sleeve had rucked up to reveal the hated Mark. Averting his eyes he had quickly pulled the sleeve down to cover it. Driving back the urge to breakfast on whisky, he had performed a number of calming exercises, quickly showered and driven to the office.

During the morning he had rehearsed his approach to the meeting and had, finally, felt confident that he was prepared to meet with the police officers. Yet now, the senior officer was staring at him as if she had seen a ghost – something Giles knew to be impossible as the building was regularly exorcised.

He felt the panic of the night before begin to rise again and swallowed hard to control it.

Brian Lane could see how this man's resemblance to Sir Timothy had affected Sandra. In order to give her time to recover, he came forward, holding out his hand.

"Sir Rupert, thank you for seeing us so quickly."

"How d'you do." Giles took his outstretched hand and held it lightly for a few seconds before releasing it.

Hearing the clipped, upper-class accent and noting the well-cut Saville Row suit, Brian felt his instinctive Northern working class distrust of the effete southern aristocracy rising up within him. He realised, however, that it would be a mistake to under-estimate this man. Although his expression had taken on a look of confusion, the eyes behind the spectacle lenses were bright and intelligent. UCOS's research had revealed that he had come down from Oxford with a double First and those degrees were not given out lightly, no matter how socially elevated the candidate. Even the Prince of Wales had only managed to achieve a lower Second class degree.

Seeing that Sandra had still not recovered from the shock he decided to take the bull by the horns. "Are you related in any way to Sir Timothy Fanshawe-Smythe?"

Giles looked surprised, and perhaps a little relieved, at the seeming non sequitur.

"Yes; distantly. He's something like my third cousin on my Mother's side of the family. I haven't seen him since we were both children. Why do you ask? I thought you were here to talk about Randall."

"We put him away." Brian confided. "Sir Tim, that is. You and he could be twins. I hope physical appearance is the only thing the two of you have in common."

Faced with a logical explanation for the resemblance, Sandra recovered control of herself. Brian's lack of social skills was a standing joke in the Unit. She had only brought him along because the Unit's research had uncovered a lot of unexpected information, which only Brian, with the phenomenal memory that had earned him the nickname of 'Memory Lane' had been able to process. Seeing him, once again, about to step on a social landmine, she quickly intervened.

"You're quite correct, Sir Rupert. Our primary purpose here is to find out what you can tell us about David Randall. As I told your secretary over the phone, his remains were recently discovered in a lock-up. He was murdered about thirty years ago, around the same time he was sharing a squat with you."

Sandra noticed their suspect's face tighten. Guilt, or just natural worry about being questioned by the police? She could not be sure.

"I see. Well I'll help as much as I can but I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you." Sir Rupert waved them towards leather armchairs set around an occasional table. "Please sit down. Would you like tea, coffee?" After both Sandra and Brian had declined, he turned towards Wells, who had been watching the scene from the door. "That will be all, Andrew; I'll ring if I need anything."

The American Personal Assistant bowed himself out and closed the doors after him.

"So, when did you last see David Randall?" Sandra asked.

Giles considered. "I can't remember exactly; sometime in the autumn of 1975 at a guess." His expression became furtive. "I'm afraid my memory of that time is not as clear as it should be."

"We're aware of your convictions for drugs possession." Brian stated.

Sir Rupert looked ashamed. He took out a cloth and began assiduously cleaning his glasses. "Ah… yes… well. You have to remember I was very young and many people of my generation were experimenting with drugs at that time. This is a period of my life I put behind me many years ago."

"And assault and petty theft, did you put them behind you at the same time?" Sandra asked with a smile so sweet it would have caused tooth decay.

Sir Rupert looked defensive. "I was never convicted on any of those charges." He protested.

"You must admit that being arrested for GBH or car theft once could be a mistake, but when there are multiple arrests, it being to look like a pattern." Brian replied.

"I…I was a young idiot. I am heartily ashamed of how I behaved in those days." Sir Rupert's cleaning cloth was polishing his glasses so hard the lenses were in danger of cracking.

Having let their quarry know that they knew he had not always been as respectable and productive a member of society as he now appeared, the two UCOS officer's pulled back.

"So, what happened, the last time you saw Mr Randall?" Sandra asked.

Sir Rupert shrugged. "Nothing out of the ordinary. He said he was going out. I assumed he was either going to buy drugs or ask his mother for more money."

Brian got up and began to prowl around the room, looking out of the window, studying the spines of the books in the bookcases and picking up and flicking through the leaflets lying on a well polished oak side table. Giles eyes flicked between the wandering UCOS officer and his superior, who had remained seated.

"Had anything out of the ordinary occurred in the days or weeks before Mr Randall 'left'?" Sandra gave the last word a cynical twist.

Sir Rupert hesitated. "No, not that I can remember." He replied.

"Really? Because the owners of the house you were squatting in say when they re-took possession, they found the remains of pentagrams and other occult symbols scrawled over the walls and floors and a witness says that he heard chanting coming from the house."

"Oh, that! We were very much into Tibetan mysticism and the symbols and the chanting were part of the rituals."

"And is that something else you've put behind you, Sir Rupert?" Brian asked, turning from the bookcase, which he had been studying.

Sir Rupert hesitated. "Yes." He finally said. "However, I have retained an academic interest in the mystical and the occult. My Doctorial thesis was on the impact of belief in the occult on political decision-making in the early medieval period."

Brian nodded. "I thought so," he said, gesturing towards the shelves. "Richard Boulton's "A Compleat History of Magick, Sourcery and Witchcraft; Amulets and Superstitions; King James' VI Deamonologie, and they're just the ones I recognise. I'm guessing that you have a wide selection of the classic texts on the occult here."

"Yes. As I said, I have an academic interest in the field." Sir Rupert replied. "But I thought you were here to talk about Randall." He added.

Sandra took up the reins of the questioning again. "You said that nothing unusual had happened before Randall disappeared, yet you and the others abandoned the squat shortly after. Why was that?"

"Did we?" Sir Rupert came back. He smiled, depreciatingly. "As I said earlier, my memory of those times is very fuzzy." He shrugged. "The fact is we were all becoming a little disenchanted with the lifestyle. 'Tune in, turn on and drop out' sounded good but, after a while, the drugs and the partying begin to play havoc with your constitution and you begin to yearn for the security of a nice warm house, a proper bed and regular meals but we were all too stubborn to be the first to leave. We assumed that Randall had gone back home and the fact that he had left meant that the rest of us felt free to do so."

"So you all went back to your homes?"

"I certainly did. I can't speak about the others. To be honest, I lost touch with them. It was too embarrassing to see any of them again."

Brian picked up the questioning. "So, you don't know what happened to them afterwards?"

Sir Rupert hesitated. Both U.C.O.S. officers felt he was considering his answer. "Philip Henry came over to Sunnydale, California, when I was living there. Presumably he intended to look me up as the police discovered my name and address in his pocket, but he died before he could contact me."

"Would it surprise you to know that all of them, apart from yourself, are either dead or unaccounted for?"

Again, both officers noted the hesitation. "Yes, it would. But it has been thirty years."

"Can you remember when Philip Henry died?" Brian asked.

"The Sunnydale Police Department contacted me on 7th November 1997."

"Thomas Sutcliffe died on 14th October 1997 and Dierdre Page on 26th October of the same year. Can you think of any reason why their deaths should be so close together?"

"Sir Rupert shook his head. "Nooo…" he said. "What an amazing coincidence."

"Where were you, Sir Rupert, on those dates?" Sandra asked.

"Surely you don't suspect…? I was in Sunnydale."

"So, the fact that both their bodies disappeared from the Mortuary, would also come as a surprise to you?"

"Yes. But bodies don't just disappear into thin air. There must have been some sort of bureaucratic error."

"Both Mortuaries' insist there was not any mistake." Sandra said.

"As they are bound to do. I'm sure you will be aware of the scandals that have recently come to light concerning the practices at some Mortuary's, Chief Superintendent." Sir Rupert smiled again. This time the U.C.O.S. officers detected a note of relief in the action.

"How did your parents react when you returned home?" Brian asked. "Killed the fatted calf did they?."

Sir Rupert looked confused at this, apparent, change of subject. "They were very relieved to see me, certainly." He said, cautiously.

"Yet, you failed to attend your father's funeral." Sandra observed.

"Uh, yes. I had urgent business in the United States. My father would have understood and approved."

"Business involving several young girls." Sandra pressed.

"As it happens I did act as chaperone two young ladies." Sir Rupert said, frostily. "If you are implying anything else, I think this meeting is at an end." He rose and moved toward the door, obviously intent on showing them out.

Sandra rose also. "Thank you for your time, Sir Rupert. We will need to speak again as our investigation progresses so we'll be in touch." She smiled, sweetly, at him.

"Oh, before we leave," Brian pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "Do you recognise this?" He showed Sir Rupert the drawing of the strange tattoo, Mrs Randall had done.

**T.B.C.**


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to everyone who's read this story so far, particularly to **Secret-H** for their review of the last chapter – Yes, it's sort of like Cold Case in that the cases investigated are all (or mostly) old, but there are no flashbacks and the investigators are all senior citizens. Also there's more humour in the show.

**Chapter 5**

Giles had begun to relax, believing the interview to be over. Now, he found himself staring down at the drawing wondering if his shock showed on his face. He cursed himself for not preparing for this question. He had assumed that, in the thirty years since his death, poor Randall's body would have decayed sufficiently to have removed all traces of the Mark of Eyghon. He fought down the urge to deny all knowledge of the bloody thing. The detective in Sunnydale had asked him virtually the same question after Philip had died. He had been running from his past then and his lie had been instinctive. It had also been foolish. The man then had had no reason to doubt him but, if he had been asked to roll up his sleeve, the lie would have been, quite literally – revealed. And, by denying all knowledge of the Mark, he had set in train a sequence of events that had almost led to the deaths of the woman he had loved, children he had been responsible for and, most importantly of all, his Slayer.

He saw that the Detective Chief Superintendent and her colleague were looking at him expectantly and read their expressions. He had already given himself away. Perhaps lying had never been an option. Philip, Dierdre and Tom Sutcliffe had all borne the Mark also and the police could already have witness statements from people who had seen it on them.

"Forgive me." He said. "Your question took me by surprise. Yes, I recognise the symbol. We found it in a book on the occult and we all had one done."

"Oh, so it has an occult significance!" The elderly, balding man…Mr. Lane, he remembered, said. "What does it mean?"

Giles forced himself to laugh. This was one piece of information he was not prepared to share. "I'm afraid I can't remember now. I could do some research and find out for you if you would like." He offered.

The detectives exchanged glances.

"That won't be necessary, Sir Rupert." Chief Superintendent Pullman replied. "Thank you for your time and the offer though. We'll be in touch." She held out her hand and Giles took it as he ushered them towards the door.

Giles decided to try to end the interview on a conciliatory note. "I apologise if I was short with you earlier." He apologised. "It's just that even a hint of anything inappropriate could damage the excellent work we do here."

"Ah, yes." Mr Lane waved one of the pamphlets he had obviously taken from the pile on the side table. "It says here that the Jenny Calendar Foundation provides educational and sporting opportunities for "challenging" teenagers all over the world. My lad, Mark, he's grown up now but he drove Ester, that's the wife, and me, up the wall during his teens. Rude, surly, argumentative; there were times when we were at our wits end with him. Would that be the sort of teenager you're looking to help?" His expression was earnestly enquiring.

Giles, relieved that the conversation had moved away from Randall's death, chuckled. "He sounds like a normal teenager to me, Mr Lane. No, 'challenging' in this context means something different. The type of teenagers we are particularly interested in helping are those with high potential, either intellectual or athletically. There is already some provision made for such individuals in many countries, particularly in the United States and Europe but it is not enough. In the developing world, many areas have no provision at all. We supplement the work of Governments and other charitable institutions here in Europe and the U.S, while we are often the only charity actively supporting these high achievers elsewhere." Giles reached out to open the door.

"I see, wasn't there an incident about a year ago? Somewhere in the Middle East?"

Giles removed his hand from the door handle realising, belatedly, that this was no casual conversation after all. The Council had intervened to limit publicity about the incident so this man must have done a significant amount of research into the activities of the Foundation - the public ones anyway.

"Yes." He said, cautiously. "In the United Arab Emirates. A mob of people who were opposed to education for women broke into our School for Girls there intent on destroying it."

Lane nodded. "They didn't calI me Memory Lane for nothing when I was a cop!" He said proudly. "The girls themselves successfully defended their school and sent the mob packing. That's right, isn't it? By the time the local police got there all they had to do was call for ambulances for the rioters who had to be stretchered out of the compound."

"Yes, err, the reports greatly exaggerated the numbers involved in the attack." Giles responded. He unconsciously got out his cloth and began scouring his glasses again. "And, as I said earlier, we place as much emphasis on physical as we do on intellectual potential. Those girls who were actively involved in defending their school were in receipt of sports and athletic scholarships."

"It all sounds like something out of a St Trinian's film, Sir Rupert." Sandra was not sure where Brian was going with this but felt she had to say something. "Did they beat back the attackers with hockey sticks or what?"

Giles gave a weak smile and reached, once again, for the door handle.

"I thought it was interesting," Brian Lane continued. "that the local Iman, a man who'd previously expressed views on female education that could hardly be described as progressive, issued a fatawah almost immediately after this incident, forbidding anyone to interfere in any way with the school, its staff or pupils and later described them as "noblest of the servants of Allah."

This was more familiar ground for Giles. "Yes." He replied. "Wherever we set up a school we work hard to develop good relations with the local authorities both religious and secular."

"I see." The irritatingly nosy man said. He waved the brochure again. "Can I keep this?"

Giles nodded and was finally able to open the door and usher his unwanted guests out.

* * *

><p>Giles stood by the window, looking out on to the street. He watched as the two U.C.O.S officers left the building and disappeared round the corner. He reviewed the interview in his mind. He knew that he had not made any damaging admissions but wondered what impression of him the two detectives had left with.<p>

There was a knock on the door. He half turned as he called, "Come in." His visitor was expected. "Ah, Willow, what do you think?"

He had asked the red-haired witch to scry the meeting and give him an impartial report on it.

Willow frowned. "You're definitely their main suspect, Giles, but you already knew that. The good news is they don't have a smoking gun anywhere, but they picked up on the fact that you were holding stuff back, particularly about the Mark of Eyghon."

Giles nodded. This confirmed what he had felt. "What about Detective Chief Superintendent Pullman and Mr Lane?" He asked.

Willow smiled. "Well, they're definitely not demons or possessed by demons." She said before going on. "Ms Pullman seems smart and tough and don't under-estimate Mr Lane, he's a lot brighter than he looks or acts." She frowned, adding "Which is of the bad if it means they come up with an explanation even close to the truth about what happened." She paused, "Giles, you've never told us, in detail, what, you know, did happen?"

"That's not important now, Willow." Giles said, roughly. "The important thing is, can they find sufficient evidence to charge me in Randall's death?"

"Giles, I think it's more than that." Willow said, apologetically. "When you hear all the weird stuff that's happened around you put together, it sounds suspicious, even if there's no evidence that you were involved in anything. If they were to go public with it, it could hurt the reputation of the Foundation."

Giles sighed. He had not wanted to acknowledge this to himself but what Willow said was true. There were those in governments throughout the world who knew that the Jenny Calendar Foundation was a front for the Slayers and Watchers Council and what the work of the Council involved. They would not be influenced by speculative news stories, but, a lot of damage limitation would be required with the public at large if allegations were to surface that the head of a multi-national charity was a possible mass murderer. The story would be too big to hide.

"I'm calling a full Council meeting." He said.

* * *

><p>Sandra and Brian entered the U.C.O.S office to find Jack and Gerry lounging on the easy chairs drinking tea.<p>

"If the tax payers of London could see you now." Sandra remarked as she hung up her coat. "Don't you have work to do; leads to follow?" she asked.

Jack took a long sip from his mug before replying. "Forensics found traces of what could be blood under the living room floorboards, Sandra." We're waiting for it to be analysed."

Sandra perked up at the news. "So Randall was probably killed there. Any chance they can get DNA from the sample?"

"They said they'd try but they weren't optimistic." Jack shrugged. "Even if they can get something they said they probably wouldn't be able to swear to it in court. I couldn't follow it all but apparently DNA markers in blood deteriorate over time unless they're properly stored, so, even if they can identify some markers, there might not be enough for a positive match."

"Course, it might not even be human blood." Gerry observed. "They could have been, you know, sacrificing animals in some ritual. They do that all the time in films."

Brian nodded. "My researches have confirmed that there are certain occult practices requiring the spilling of blood, either animal or human. But, even if it's human blood, it doesn't, necessarily, mean the person whose blood it is died as a result. Sometimes just a few drops are required for the ritual."

"So, assuming what you found was human blood, even if we could prove it was Randall's, it isn't proof he was murdered?" Sandra asked.

Brian nodded. "Though Sir Rupert said they were performing Tibetan rituals. According to what I've read, they don't usually require human, or even animal, blood. They're Buddhists you see." He explained.

Sandra sighed. She could see this was going to be one of those frustrating investigations, where nothing was straightforward.

"So, how did the interview with Sir Rupert go then?" Gerry asked. "Think he's a mass murderer?"

Sandra sat down and accepted a cup of tea from Jack, while Brian took his mug and wandered over to his desk and began checking his laptop.

She took a gulp of the hot, strong liquid and began filling the others in on the interview with their main suspect.

"He was definitely not telling us everything he knows." She concluded. "When we asked him about the squat, he tried to make out that he was in a drug induced haze most of the time and couldn't remember any details. We know, from his arrest records, that that's not true but whether he's holding out from embarrassment or guilt – I can't say."

"What about the tattoo?" Jack asked. "The post-mortem results for both Thomas Sutcliffe and Dierdre Page show they had a similar one, and I'll bet a good part of my police pension, that if the FBI can track down Philip Henry's results, he'll also have had one."

Sandra nodded. "Giles admitted it was some sort of occult symbol and that they all had one done but said he didn't know what it meant." She frowned. "Which seems unlikely, given that he admitted to an ongoing interest in the occult."

"Ah ha!" Brian cry of triumph caused all eyes to swivel in his direction. He picked up the laptop and turned it round so the others could see the screen. A line drawing of the, by now, familiar tattoo drawn by Mrs Randall filled the screen.

"I scanned Mrs Randall's drawing onto the computer last night and left it running a search programme for similar designs and it's found a match. He tapped the screen before turning the laptop back towards himself and using the keyboard to scroll down. "It says here this is the Mark of Eyeghon and was worn by his initiates. Apparently Eyeghon, also referred to as the Sleepwalker, was worshipped by the early Etruscans. He could be summoned by certain rituals to enter into a human body and provide the possessed person with an incredible high – particularly in the… err… area of sexual prowess so to speak."

"Maybe Gerry should get one." Jack said, with a grin. Ignoring Gerry's cry of outrage at the idea he needed assistance in that direction, he went on. "So, a bunch of teenage drop-outs tattooed themselves with a sign celebrating hot sex. Bit of a disappointment really – I was hoping it was going to be the symbol of some ancient Order of Assassins or, at least, a criminal organisation of some sort."

"This is interesting though." Brian said, still reading. "According to this, if the initiate lost control, then this Eyeghon could take them over completely. At which point, the only way of banishing him was to cut off the head of the possessed person." He sat back.

All four of them looked at each other, the same thought occurring to them all at the same time.

"Noooo!" They all said, in unison.

**T.B.C.**


End file.
